


going in and out of focus

by thehibiscusthief



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Coffee, M/M, Magical Realism, Pining, Post-Graduation, So many letters, Soppiness, The Boyfriend Hoodie except its a flannel and theyre not boyfriends yet, Yearning, nursey is dramatic, or fabulism depending on ur definition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22323238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehibiscusthief/pseuds/thehibiscusthief
Summary: Let’s give Nursey the benefit of the doubt for a moment. Perhaps this old, slightly tattered, wellworn flannel is an unused staple of his wardrobe. Stranger things have happened. Whatever makes him happy.What we are not going to ignore, however, is the box of letters that sits on the shelf above this flannel.
Relationships: Derek "Nursey" Nurse/William "Dex" Poindexter
Comments: 39
Kudos: 237





	going in and out of focus

Graduation…was a long time ago. Two years, three years, does it really matter? Does he really care?

(It matters).

(He cares).

But somehow in those two-three years, through move after move and change after change, a…certain item has remained in the back of his closet.

He doesn’t have a problem! He’s fine! He can throw it out whenever he wants! It’s just that it’s…an essential part of his wardrobe. He can’t give up an essential part of his wardrobe. Then it wouldn’t be his wardrobe anymore.

(He’s never worn it).

(It still smells like _him_ —and he’d like to keep it that way).

And so this item remains hanging in the back of his closet.

Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt for a moment. Perhaps this old, slightly tattered, wellworn flannel _is_ an unused staple of his wardrobe. Stranger things have happened. Whatever makes him happy.

What we are _not_ going to ignore, however, is the box of letters that sits on the shelf above this flannel.

 _Dear Dex,_ one reads, _I can’t stop thinking about you. I know it’s only been a week since we saw each other, since we left Samwell, but—I think I made a mistake. I think I left too many things unsaid. I told myself I’d tell you but the time was never right and now the time is gone. Maybe if I write you instead of telling you, the time will still be right…_

Another: _Dear Dex, you’re so fucking beautiful did you know that. did you know you walk into a room and the walls themselves cant stop themselves from turning to look at you. did you know that neither can i. and its not just your eyes or your hair or your smile (god your smile) its the sheer dexness that floods from you and its gorgeous its beautiful i..._

On and on and on until we arrive at the most recent letter—lying on a glass desktop, careful letters pressed into the page, ballpoint pen ink still drying in the dashes and dots—

_Dex-_

_I love you. I’m sorry._

_-Nursey_

There’s really no excuse for these. No, we cannot pass these by. We cannot overlook the detritus of exactly two years, three months, and five days of dramatic pining.

Nor can we overlook the body slumped over the glass desktop in sleep, the ballpoint pen sliding out of a limp hand.

_Nursey. Nurse._

_Derek._

_Wake up._

|||

“Large Americano for Will?” the barista calls. Dex gets—no, _Will_ gets—no—

 _He_ gets up from his table to get his coffee.

Sheesh. Two years after graduation and he still isn’t used to _Will_. But these days absolutely no one calls him—

“Dex?”

His head snaps to the right. Here, here could be a perfect moment, here could be where the flannel becomes truly essential and the box of letters could be opened, but instead—

“Foxtrot?”

|

Foxtrot is doing great. Foxtrot is thriving. Foxtrot is working at a local university, managing a performance space that combines theater and dance and visual art. She’s getting paid. She’s making decisions. She does communal coffee runs of her own free will.

Again. She’s thriving.

Will is…making money. He’s making money by telling people to turn things on and off again. But money is money and you can’t turn your rent off and on again so he’s doing great. Not thriving, not yet, but doing great.

Foxtrot has a girlfriend.

Will has a cat.

“Really? I thought you were a dog person!” Foxtrot says.

Will shrugs. “Cats are nice too.” And cheaper. And, surprisingly, able to be trained to walk on leashes.

They’re unexpectedly good hiking companions.

“Wow, people really do change! Seems like just yesterday you and Chowder and Nursey were arguing about cats versus dogs.”

Will blinks. He doesn’t remember that particular argument. (There were so many, though). “Are you sure it wasn’t something about a hundred cat-sized dogs?”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” she says. She takes a sip of her cappuccino. “I guess that wouldn’t be so out of the ordinary.”

“A lot of arguments were about a hundred something-sized things.”

“For the record, I’d rather be attacked by the horse-sized goose.”

“No way. Goose-sized horses would be way less terrifying.”

Foxtrot laughs. “Agree to disagree?”

“Sure,” says Dex. His Americano is warm in his hands. “Agree to disagree.”

|||

Derek dreams.

A horse-sized goose is sitting in an armchair. One wing holds a cappuccino, the foam swirled into a tasteful leaf design. There is a pair of wireframe glasses resting on its beak.

“Why haven’t you sent the letter?” it asks.

Derek crosses his feet, laying back on the chaise longue. He uncrosses his feet. He clasps his hands, unclasps his hands, sits up suddenly and looks around.

“Where the hell am I?” he asks. The chaise longue feels real enough. The goose looks as real as a horse-sized cappuccino-drinking waterfowl can look.

“Why haven’t you sent the letter?”

“I—what letter?”

“Why haven’t you sent the letter?”

Derek remembers the letter. Well. Letter _s_.

“It’s…not right yet.”

“Why haven’t you sent the letter?”

“It’s not right yet!”

“Why haven’t you sent the letter?”

“I _told_ you—”

Derek wakes up.

Paper rustles under his cheek. He sits up with a groan, pushing himself off the desk. The paper he had been using as a pillow is creased, the dark lines blurred. He raises a hand to his cheek, wipes at it. His fingers come away ink-stained.

Great.

He pulls out his phone and looks at his cheek in the camera. Printed on his skin in shiny black ink are snippets from his latest draft of the letter he told himself he’d send years ago:

_Dex-Love-Sorry._

Just _great_.

Derek stands up, walks to the bathroom. He reaches for his cleansing balm and begins to wipe the words away.

He doesn’t need this right now. He needs to put this letter back in the box and pull out his laptop and do his actual job that he gets actual money for. He needs to quit pining and move on. He needs to be an adult about all this. He needs, he needs, he needs.

|

Derek is doing great. Derek is thriving. Derek has fifty-six literary magazines to send his latest work to, and a pile of manuscripts fifty-six feet high to edit before he can do so.

Derek needs more caffeine.

And so does everyone else in the office, apparently.

Thus, speedwalking through the streets while carefully balancing no less than three trays of Starbucks handcrafted custom espresso drinks and one cup of straight black coffee from a local coffee joint.

Has Derek suddenly become the star of _The Devil Wears Prada_ ’s unwritten sequel? No matter. Before long, he is in the lobby of his building, jabbing the elevator button and impatiently watching the numbers tick down.

Doors open. He steps in. Doors close.

Floors pass.

Doors open. He steps out. Doors close.

The handcrafted custom espresso drinks are distributed fairly quickly, and then Derek finds his desk and plops down in his chair. He takes a sip of his straight black coffee. He takes a breath. He taps out his password and his computer lights up. It’s time to work.

Derek likes his job. He does! It’s not everything he ever wanted, but then, no job is. He gets to spend his day pulling apart sentences and poking at weak spots in plots and character arcs and arguments and sometimes a rare bit of poetry will cross his inbox and he gets to spend a moment of his day somewhere else, somewhere magical, somewhere almost holy, and that’s really all one can ask for in a late-stage capitalist society.

Some of the other editors complain about their rare bits of poetry. _Instagram poetry_ , they say, _fake-deep purple prose humdrum no-thanks good-bye_.

There’s no such thing as a bad poem, Derek thinks. He highlights a word, types out a quick comment, scrolls onward. Every poem he’s ever seen has a little nugget of _something_ —buried under quite a lot of nothing, sometimes, but still there, still shining through.

Oh, look at that! A misused semicolon. Does it fall under artistic license? No, this is an more academic work. Grammar rules are real, concrete things here, not digital inked dots;dashes;illusions; to be played with.

Derek highlights the semicolon, types out a quick comment, and scrolls onward. He reaches for his coffee cup. It’s disappointingly light. Oh well. Maybe he’ll reach for his water bottle instead, now. He should really drink more water.

This sentence makes no sense following the previous one. He highlights the sentence, types out a quick comment, and scrolls onward.

The glass water bottle sits on the corner of his desk, filled up all the way, the same it’s been for the last three days. Underneath the water bottle is a little bare circle. Outside of the little bare circle is a slight coating of dust.

The topic of this paragraph should be addressed sooner. He highlights the paragraph, types out a quick comment, and scrolls onward.

Highlight. Type. Scroll. Highlight. Type. Scroll. Highlight. Type. Scroll. Highlight. Type. Scroll. Highlight. Type. Scroll. Highlight. Type. Scroll. Highlight. Type. Scroll.

_Have you tried turning it off and on again?_

Highlight. Type. Scroll.

_Have you tried turning it off and on again?_

Highlight. Type. Scroll.

_Have you—_

Derek is thriving.

_Will is doing great._

|||

The flannel was born a decade ago. It doesn’t like to think about the creation. The sun and earth and rain were _wonderful_ but—

The flannel likes to start its story when it was first unpacked in the back room of a shiny department store, carefully folded, and set out in a welcoming display of warm plaids and soft threads.

Someone bought it. They loved it. They wore it. Washed regularly, with good detergent that didn’t strip the color from its threads and dryer sheets that gently folded in scents and oils. But then—they put it in the back of their closet, and then they put it in a box, and then they drove it to a thrift store on the edge of Samwell University’s campus, where it just _hung there_ for far too long.

Then sophomores. Bonding.

_Dude, your shirt’s got a giant hole._

_I-oh, shit!_

One— _money_. The other— _sustainability_. Both— _thrift store_.

_Hey, this looks nice._

_Don’t you have that exact flannel, though?_

_Uh. No?_

_Really, dude? Like, it’s chill, and you’ve got your-aesthetic, but maybe get some variety in your closet—_

_No, the one you’re thinking of is a little whiter. They’re not the same._

_If you say so._

Two years. Lots of wear. A new detergent. No dryer sheets. Then Haus dryer sheets. The elbows get worn thin, the soft threads get softer, sometimes the wrong person grabbed the flannel in the morning but it usually got sorted out before the day is over.

And then everything was packed into boxes and the flannel was put in the wrong box by accident and then—

_Dex? Buddy? I think I grabbed one of your flannels by mistake. Don’t worry about it? Really? I-okay. Okay. Thanks. Yeah, you too. Take care. Bye._

Fingers trailed over the soft plaid print. The flannel was carefully hung up in the closet—and there it’s stayed.

While the flannel is glad that it is precious, it wouldn’t mind being worn occasionally. Something about it just feels—wrong, all the earth and rain and sun and the—the inbetween—and the store and the Someone and the Sophomores, all so a college graduate can bring it out to pine over a boy.

But it’s an inanimate piece of cloth, so it doesn’t think or feel any of this. It just hangs in the back of Nursey’s closet.

|||

“Large Americano for Will?”

“Thanks.” Will takes the cup from the barista. It’s to-go today; he’s on his way to work and doesn’t have time to sit and breathe in the warm coffee-scented air with Foxtrot.

The door closes behind him. A gust of wind immediately punches him in the chest. His fingers tighten around the waxed paper cup. Only two blocks to work. Two blocks. The wind won’t stop him from two blocks.

Will clutches the coffee to his chest, puts his head down, and pushes onwards.

|||

Derek needs a change. It’s time to let go. It’s time to embrace the _highlighttypescroll_ and let college fly back into the past.

This morning, he took the box of letters down from the shelf. He placed the latest draft on top, still crumpled from his nap. Then he reached back into his closet and gently unhooked the hanger with the flannel, pulling it through racks of button-downs and suit jackets. He couldn’t resist bringing it up to his face one last time. Dex’s scent was—long gone. It’d been gone for a while, if he’s honest with himself.

The flannel was carefully folded and draped over the stack of letters. The lid went on, and that was that.

Briefcase, coat, shoes, gloves, scarf—the wind had been brutal lately. Box under his arm.

Door locked behind him.

He needs a change.

|||

On the whole, Will is a very practical person. He drinks Americanos, after all. Americanos are not the coffee choice of a sentimentalist. Americanos are the coffee choice of workaholics with no time for _dreams_ or _romance_ or _nostalgia_.

Will is very honest with himself. He’s learned to be. He knows who he is, and for the most part he’s okay with it.

And that’s why he’s not embarrassed about the beanie hanging on a hook by the door, stray pieces of dark curly hair still caught in the knitted pattern.

|

“Dex, you’re kidding me. Neither of you ever said anything?” Foxtrot asks, swirling around the dregs of her cappuccino. They’d talked for hours that day, catching up on all things post-Samwell, and they’ve stumbled on the topic that Dex was hoping to let pass by.

“Well—”

“Cowards. Both of you, cowards!”

“It was college. It was a long time ago.”

“You shared a room with this man for _years!_ Time doesn’t matter!”

“He’s probably forgotten about me by now. We went different places after graduation and just…fell out of touch.”

“His beanie is hanging by your door.”

“I didn’t say that _I’d_ forgotten _him_.”

Foxtrot rolls her eyes. “Dex. William. William Poindexter.”

Dex sighs.

“Look at you, you’re _lovestruck_. _Two years later!_ ” she exclaims.

“What am I supposed to do, message him on Facebook or whatever and declare my love for him? We’re in different cities. I don’t know if his phone number is still the same. We haven’t talked in—I don’t know how long.”

Foxtrot presses her lips together.

She pulls out her phone, taps for a minute, nods to herself.

“Dex, I love you, I’ve missed you, but you’re such a dumbass. Look.” She turns her phone to show him Nursey’s Instagram, and—there’s a picture of the park three blocks away from Dex’s apartment.

It takes a minute to process.

His eyes widen.

“ _Oh_.”

“Yeah, _oh_. He moved here six months ago. He works for some editing company, writes his own stuff on the side,” Foxtrot explains. “You are in the _same_ city, apparently in the same _area_. Text him. Message him. Something. Dex, come on, he has thirty different social medias with messaging features.”

“I-okay.” Dex is reeling a bit.

Foxtrot raises an eyebrow. “You promise?”

“I gotta go.”

“Hey!”

|||

Paper _remembers_. It remembers the earth, the tree, the light free leaves. It remembers the pulper, the press, the scratching pens and flowing ink.

Paper wants to make things _move_. Paper was made to come alive, to share knowledge, spread news, elicit emotions.

Things are moving today. There hasn’t been wind like this in so long. Paper remembers the wind through the branches, ruffling whispering lifting rushing…

Paper wants to _move_ —and the wind knows it. The wind loves it.

Wind catches the side of the box, worms its way under the lid, gusts— _one, two, three, PUSH_ —

The lid flies away—patterned cloth billows out—

And the paper is _free_.

Leaf after leaf, blank white, lined notebook, yellow legal, old receipts, hotel notepads, flying rushing wild through the air, dancing in the wind, streaming through the streets of the city—

 _Oh shit,_ Derek thinks to himself, watching his declarations of love spill into the city sky.

|

 _Oh shit_ , Will thinks to himself the split second his foot lands on a slick piece of construction paper and slides out from under him. His Americano flies. His body falls.

His back hits the pavement. His head, luckily, does not. It takes him a moment to get his bearings and realize that he’s still alive.

“What the hell…”

He pushes himself up to sitting, just in time for a crumpled piece of paper to smack him him in the face. Will claws it off.

Oh. There’s writing on it.

 _Dear Dex_ ,

 _I don’t think I realized it until it was almost too late. Always had my head up in the clouds, didn’t think I’d ever fall for my grumpy teammate. But one day, after we’d moved into the Haus—you were talking about coding and I looked over and saw the light in your eyes and I just_ knew _. I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t. I should have but I was never brave enough to say it, so here I am, writing it in a letter instead._

_I love you._

_-Nursey_

“What the hell.”

Maybe it’s for another Dex, from another Nursey. Maybe he’s dreaming. Maybe he did hit his head and this is the result of a really bad concussion.

The paper under his legs flutters in the wind. He reaches down, pulls it out. More words.

 _Dear Dex_ , it reads,

_I can’t believe I let you go. I really just can’t believe it. You were right there—right there!—and I let you slip away. We shared a room, for fucks sake. Do you know how many poems about your eyes I wrote, sitting two feet away from you and praying you wouldn’t look at my screen? But you were always so occupied with your coding and you never said anything so I thought you never knew, and I was glad, but—I wish you’d known. I wish I’d said something. I wish I’d read every single one of those damn poems aloud as I wrote them, filled the air with your starlight eyes and hearth-warm hair and soft, soft self._

_In case you couldn’t tell—I loved you. I love you._

_I just hope you love me too._

_-Nursey_

In the upper right corner of the page, the number _37_ is penciled in.

Thirty-seven?

The wind shrieks past him, laughing maniacally. An old receipt darts out and tucks itself in the folds of his coat.

Hand trembling ever so slightly, Will draws it out.

On the back is another letter. Or—more of a poem. A list?

_Dex-_

_Eyes. Hair. Smile. Fixing dryer, fixing Betsy, fine jar. Humor. Kindness. Words like acid taste like honey._

_-Nursey_

He turns the receipt around again. On the front, in bold black Sharpie: _#189_

One hundred and eighty nine.

Were these—the number of letters?

It couldn’t be anyone but Nursey, _his_ Nursey. Did—did Nursey sit down and write out _one hundred and eighty nine_ letters declaring his love for Dex?

The wind dies down. Will can’t believe this. It’s—it has to be, but it can’t be, because—

The wind isn’t done. It picks back up, stronger than before, swirling and sweeping through people, around buildings, twisting around itself in its own excitement. It’s found it! It knows where the paper needs to go!

Will looks up.

Above him is a cloud of paper, held aloft by the wind.

“Oh, _shit_.”

When the dust settles and the wind slinks away satisfied, Dex is surrounded by a mountain of paper.

On his lap is a single crumpled sheet.

He flattens out the paper, smoothing out the creases until the blurred ink is clear.

_Dex-_

_I love you. I’m sorry._

_-Nursey_

The number?

400.

|

The evidence of two years, three months, and five days of dramatic pining has just been swept away from him and out into the city for all to see. To say Nursey is panicking is to put things so lightly they float.

“Oh God.” He says, and sits down hard on the pavement.

As some sort of consolation from the universe, the flannel drifts down onto his shoulders.

|

Keeping the beanie was _worth it_.

Suck on _that_ , Foxtrot.

Wait.

“OhmyGodhelovesme,” Dex blurts to no one. His hand spasms, crushing the short note. _400_. 400 letters, 400 confessions, poem after poem day after day for _Dex_. “ _He loves me_.”

|

Foxtrot is _very_ early to her meeting. This room’s windows have an excellent view; why not take advantage of the space?

The wind is crazy today. Street signs are shaking. It looks like someone’s files got swept up—she can make out bits of paper fluttering around.

A speck shoots up and plasters itself to her window for a brief second—searching, somehow—

_Oh._

A brilliant grin works its way across Foxtrot’s face as the sheet of paper is ripped away from the glass and thrown back into the maelstrom.

Bless those idiots.

|

Will is still sitting on the pavement, a puddle of cold coffee slowly growing next to him.

What now?

What…does he do, _now_?

_Text him. Message him. Something._

Before he knows it, he’s tugging his phone out of his pocket with numb fingers, opening up app after app after app, instagramsnapchatfacebooktumblrpinterestyoutubediscord, and typing the same message into each and every one:

_I love you too._

A minute passes. Dex realizes. The apps open back up.

_Coffee? I know a great place._

A minute more passes. Dex—doubts for a moment. But then he looks around himself at the _four hundred_ letters on the ground, and the doubt vanishes.

His phone buzzes.

He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> ...im alive?  
> thanks so much for reading yall! its been a year and a bit since i wrote anything besides essays and im slowly getting the feel of it back. idk i tried some stuff with this one.  
> inspiration and title came from the Codeko's song Sweater, specifically the lines "And I'm still wearin' your sweater/Writing you my letters"  
> also theres no way that you would fall this out of touch with your best friend esp from a culture like smh in only 2 years but lets all just pretend


End file.
